


The Memories Within the Walls [Discontinued]

by cococape



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: AU, Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Family, Gen, Ghosts, Ghosty Bois Inc, Platonic Relationships, Wolfythewitch, sleepy bois inc - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:46:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27570031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cococape/pseuds/cococape
Summary: *This work has been discontinued. See end notes for details*Ghosts aren't the living, clinging desperately to their remains on Earth. Ghosts are the lingering memories pinned down by their anchors, cursed to live their last moments over and over again. Ghosts would rather fade into obscurity like their people could, but they can't. Because everything must repeat for all eternity.The ghosts would rather disappear... until they met those boys.Credit for AU to WolfytheWitch on Twitter[GhostyBoisInc AU]
Comments: 56
Kudos: 681





	1. The Home

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Ghosty Bois AU](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/713629) by WolfytheWitch. 



> Warning: This story explores the concept of death and sadness a lot.
> 
> Credit for this AU goes to WolfytheWitch on twitter.
> 
> My depiction of the people in the story in no way reflects my opinions of the creators themselves. 
> 
> Don't expect a lot of updates

“Have fun boys! Don’t stay up too late!” 

“Thanks mum!” One of them said, His bright smile seemed to light up his dark hair.

“We got it, Tubbo’s mum.” The other replied with a wave, the sunlight causing his straw coloured hair to shine as the car sped off, back into civilization. He turned to his friend.

“Tell me again why you never said anything about a family cabin?”

“Aren’t I allowed to have secrets Tommy?” Tubbo laughed. “I bet you have a few.”

“Well, yeah but--” He started as they begin walking up the steps of the house, feet landing on the wooden steps with a hard and satisfying thud. “Can’t believe you can just… come up here. To the woods.”

“Not really.” the other replied, taking the key ring out of his jean pocket and fumbling with the lock. 

“What do you mean, ‘not really’? What’s stopping you from coming up here?”

“Well…” Tubbo trailed off, as the lock finally clicks. “We just finished renovating it a few weeks ago. It was my great uncle’s see, but he didn’t really use this place? So he rented it out to people who wanted it. Like those AirBnB things?”

“Oh yeah?” Tommy opened the door before his friend could protest. “Then what happen-- woah.”

The boys took a step in, bags jangling as they took in their surroundings. The colorful and simple plush chairs, the unlit fireplace. The two pairs of bunk beds lining against the wall. The short coffee table, small enough to be a foot rest. 

Perhaps to the ordinary onlooker, it was nothing special. But to these boys who’ve only ever known the city, it was new. And it was wonderful.

“He died.” The shorter boy deadpans, continuing their previous conversation, and Tommy spun around, eyes wide. Tubbo cackled.

“Your face! Ooh, I got you there.”

“So he didn’t die.”

“No, he died. Like last year. Not here though.” He put his bags down and stretched. “Like I said, he barely ever used this place.”

“Oh, I’m… Sorry Tubbo.” Tommy went quiet, unsure what to say. 

“No no!” His companion said brightly. “I never met him. From what my dad says, he wasn’t that interesting either. He did… maths.”

Tommy howled with laughter, his dark mood suddenly gone. 

“‘Maths’? Really?”

“What?” Tubbo shrugged. “It was something with numbers. He did math things. But yeah, we had to fix it up a bit, because it was all burned. I think the locals said there was a forest fire or something a while back.”

“Well, there better not be one while we’re around!” The taller boy laughed, rushing up the stairs. “Come on! Race you to the bedrooms!”

“Tommy, we’re not even kids anymo-- Hey! That’s cheating!” The other shouted, picking up his bag and running after him.

The glee and the excitement from these inseparable friends seemed to bubble up and spread throughout the stale and lonely air of the house as they began to unpack their belongings. It was the sound of life, the sound of music, the sound of the playful natures that all young children have.

And slowly, from underneath the foundations, old bones began to stir awake. Slowly, old artifacts began to open their eyes.


	2. Hidden

Wilbur wants to scream.

He woke up that morning in the plush armchair in his room, his guitar leaning against the backing, polished and cleaned and well tuned as it always is. Or he likes to imagine it is.

He could hear humming from the kitchen, could smell the lingering impressions of baked goods in the air, a sweet treat saved for special occasions, sour like it’s grown old in more ways than one.

He could remember the events of this day very clearly in his head. It’s the only thing he can remember, whether he likes it or not. 

Songs he knows he wrote and performed drift like clouds in his mind, a haze he can’t grab, a melody on the tip of his tongue. His hands passed through lyrics like water, scattering like butterflies and flying away before his very eyes. He tries to write more songs of course, but they turn nonsensical, each note fading from his memory as the next one arrives, each word forgotten by the next cycle.

He thinks about touching the beautiful marvel of an instrument, hands hovering over the strings. But at the last minute, he sighs. Stands up, opens the door, and lets his body carry him to where he needed to go.

Maybe once, he would have described the kitchen as beautiful. Counters made of a stone he couldn’t bother to name, polished to shine with the little sunlight that streamed from the window through the trees. The hazelnut cupboards complimenting the darker tones of the walls it was stuck to like they were the closest of friends. The fridge -- oh, the magic fridge -- that had an ice dispenser, so Phil could take all the ice he wanted and still leave some left for the boys.

Now, the only word Wilbur can only describe it as disgusting. Something he could see in his nightmares, where a skeleton hand could fall out onto the ground, or where cockroaches could crawl out of corners, almost as if they were escaping some other horrible reality into his.

“How’d you sleep?” A familiar man’s voice asks, and Will almost startles. Without his signature hat, it gets difficult to recognize Phil with just his blond hair, but it helps that he’s the only blond he’s ever seen around.

“Could be better.” He replies with a yawn, a lie repeated so many times it became almost meaningless. A string of sound. “What’re you cooking Dadza?”

“Pancakes.” Phil says, and the boy mouths it mockingly behind his back. 

Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be?

“Can you go wake Techno?” He asks, flipping the spongy fluff with his spatula. Remember, it’s his birthday would have been the next line, but to Will’s relief, he didn’t say it.

“Yeah, of course.” 

He smiles, turning around. Leaving the smell of hot cakes behind, humming notes at random in an attempt of normalcy as he walked over to the attic.


	3. Within Layers

People often misinterpret ghosts as the last remaining bits of life, the human soul that refuses to ascend into a new plane, the spirit that wants to cling and remain on material land.

That isn’t the case.

Ghosts are not the remnants of the people they once were. Ghosts are the memories given life once their original owners set them free. Ghosts are the things that attach themselves to objects, or perhaps they’re tied to them, or perhaps they’re trapped with them for all eternity. Ghosts are not the living they once were. They were simply the lingering impressions of the lives they once had.

And the man tries to remember this as he startles awake, long pink hair sprawled out like a spiderweb on the dusty wooden floor, a fencing sword -- his prison -- an arm’s reach away.

The last loop felt like a distant dream, hazy like the memories, hazy like the air that last night, when the fire devoured his oxygen, practically scooping them out of his lungs as he remained trapped, trapped in the room he loved once for its quiet, despised now for its peace. The room he made his undoing, the coffin he built for himself.

The last loop was like the loop before that. It was like the loop before that. He doesn’t doubt that this loop will be the same.

As a memory, he only knows to repeat his mistakes. As a memory, he is unable to learn.

“Techno! You awake yet?” He hears, the hatch on the ground trembling with a force his brother could only possess in death.

“Yeah.” He replies, and it feels painfully like a play for an audience of none, lines being repeated over and over, a force of habit unable to be broken. “You can come in,” He adds, even though he knows it’s useless, the floor tile flipping over even before he could finish, popping his head out from the floor below.

“God, it’s so dusty in here.” Wilbur coughs, waving his hand to clear the particles.

You always say that. Techno wanted to shout, but he knew the other would argue the same.

“What’s dad making this time?” He asks instead, sitting up. 

“Pancakes.” His younger smiles. “A favourite of a birthday boy.”

“It’s not my birthday.” It hasn’t been his birthday in decades.

“A favourite of the deathday boy then?” Will’s smile cracks for a second, a perfect porcelain giving way to pain. Regret. It begs the question if he must look the same.  
“You need to stop saying that.” Techno sighs, crawling over to come down. “It’s kinda depressing.”

“Well, I’m a depressing boy.” His brother laughs, ducking back down as he swung his legs onto the ladder and began to climb down.

“Keep it to your music Wilbur.” He grumbles, even though he would give anything to hear the strum of that guitar again. Anything but this silence, this absence of not only sound, but feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I reordered the chapters, the newer one is the second chapter and I haven't edit the chapters properly yet so they're more cohesive D:


	4. Of Memories

Phil doesn’t remember what it felt like to live.

To be fair, he doubts the boys do either. The loop only mimics the life they once had, but after millions of them, it feels like a stage play that never ends.

He knew the concept quite well — joy, excitement, the rush of the unexpected, things that made every second of existence in the world worth it — but the feelings he felt now were programmed into him. His fears, his excitement, all timed perfectly with the emotions he felt on that last day. His laughter is always hollow and disingenuine. His smiles are always fake. His boys tell the same jokes over and over, and all he can do is push them forward into the next loop, with no hope and no end.

As the three sit around the table, all he could hear is the same clank of utensils on ceramic plates, the same comments being repeated about the same foods over and over.

“You kinda burnt mine, Phil.”

“Don’t listen to Techno, Dadza. Your cooking’s wonderful!”

Phil laughed, cutting a slice from his own pancake and shoving it in his mouth, dry. A small act of rebellion, and yet despite that, the sickly sweet flavour of the syrup still lingered.

They were only friends, that’s how it started. Family bound through love and not blood, and isn’t that relationship stronger anyways? Years of banter and jokes turned into nicknames, then finally turned into titles that were spoken with dead seriousness amongst them.

Philza, the father. Techno and Wilbur were brothers. It was never in contention. It was as if it were always destined to be.

“What’s the plan today?” He asked the boys, watching them shovel the food into their mouths. Not that they were hungry. Or, they were. Just not for the food.

“Sparring.” Techno replied, deadpan, and Wilbur crinkled his nose in disgust.

“You _always_ do that. And you’re always alone up there. Why don’t you hang out with me and Phil every once in a while?”

“You’re one to talk.” The elder shot back. “You stay in your room all the time and pluck at your guitar.”

“Boys…” Phil warns, but it was useless anyways. Wilbur gasped, affronted.

“For the record, I’m _this_ close to finishing another song.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

“But I’m close this time, I swear!”

“Wil,” Techno sighed. “At some point you need to understand that you’re never going to get anywhere. Your music isn’t going to help us get outta here.”

Wilbur stared at his brother, mouth opening and closing silently in shock. Between them, Phil tried to laugh it off.

“I-I’m sure Techno didn’t mean it—” He started, but it was useless. The younger slammed his hands on the table and stood, storming off back into his room, fuming. Phil turned to Techno, who simply continued to calmly finish his food as they heard the door slam shut in the boy’s anger.

“I’m sure you didn’t mean it.” He said with a nervous laugh.

“Oh, of course I didn’t.” His pink haired son replied, dragging Wilbur’s plate towards him. “But it is what it is.”  
The father nodded in understanding. Not approvingly, just agreeably.

“Happy birthday mate.” He said quietly, standing and collecting the empty plates.

“It’s not my birthday,” His son’s face was dark as he uncapped the syrup, drenching the remaining contents of the bottle onto his breakfast, and shoving a piece violently into his mouth. Phil watched him swallow, emotionless. “It has never once — not in my entire lifetime — ever been my birthday.”


	5. It Sits

“Tommy?”

“Yeah?”

“You didn’t happen to bring a guitar with you, right?”

“No? I’m pretty sure I didn’t? Any particular reason why?”

“Uh,” Tubbo stared at the instrument leaning at the end of his bed, mind racing with questions. “N-no reason!” He called back with a cheerful laugh. Below, he could smell the warm wafting aroma of breakfast. Pancakes, or their third attempt of it that day. “Just thought maybe we could use some music, that’s all.”

He approached it cautiously, eyebrows knit in confusion. He could’ve sworn the house was empty of anything except the things they brought in their packs.

“We can listen to music once you find my phone, Tubbo!” Tommy called from downstairs, but the boy didn’t hear him. His eyes only continued to stare down this strange wooden instrument.

What would happen if he touched it, he wondered as his fingers hovered over the strings. Would it suddenly disappear? Would his hand pass through it? Or maybe he’ll get an electric shock and wake up, and learn it was all just a dream.

Of course, none of that actually happened when his hand got too close, when his fingers extended too far and brushed lightly on the strings with an awful _twang_.

Tubbo suppressed the bubble of laughter that built up inside him, the fantasy gone. Of course it would be terribly out of tune. All string instruments — mysterious and magical or not — all seem to be out of tune whenever you find them.

With the hunt for the phone left forgotten, he sits down at the end of his bed, twisting the knobs and strumming the metal strings, listening to the cracks as they stretched for the first time in… who knows how long?

With the final string perfected to the best of his ability, Tubbo finally let his thumb graze over the six wires, hearing the jumble of notes organize into a semblance of a chord, as the instrument made its first noise, its first cry out into the world since… Who knows how long?

Those first notes sounded like a sigh. But he didn’t notice.

Instead, his fingers began to strum the strings absentmindedly, his other hand tapping the instrument with no discernable pattern in sight.

He played with no rhythm in particular, and yet a rhythm formed anyways. A melody, solemn and sad. Romantic, yet distant. Like a song that was once made for somebody, but that story was faded and lost to time.  
“I didn’t know you listened to Wilbur Soot!”

Tubbo looked up, startled to see Tommy at the doorway.

“Who?”

“Wilbur Soot! You don’t know Wilbur Soot? _I thought I couldn't love anymore, Turns out I can't, but not for the same reasons as before_.” He sang, off-tune but clearly recognizable as the missing words to go with the song. “Nothing?” He asked incredulously. “Seriously?”

“Is that like a new pop star or something?”

“No, he’s like… I saw his stuff on my recommended once. He’s like, this indie singer, but his songs got millions of views, and they’re also really good.”

“Yeah,” Tubbo shook his head. “That… I don’t remember anything like that. And you’ve never told me about him before.”

“Oh, ‘Cause it’s been years.” Tommy said as if it were obvious. “Kinda forgot about him, actually. Oh! Here,” He walked over to the bed beside, and unplugged the phone that had been left charging there. “I think I finished the pancakes? Come down and I’ll show you some of his other songs.”

“Alright!” He replied, watching his friend walk out and back down the stairs. Except Tubbo didn’t attempt to get up, instead feeling this familiar yet mysterious object in his hands, this object that he used to play a song that he’s never heard before. In the back of his mind, something felt off about it, about the situation. But logic dictated it a coincidence, happenstance, a pure occasion of chance, and so that was the story the boy believed, as he studied the room around him.

And then… he saw it.

A figure in the corner. A yellow jumper, the colour of summer and sunflowers. A grey beanie like cities and asphalt sitting atop of its head. A tuft of hair covering its eyes and its face.

His eyes and his brain couldn’t seem to agree. Logic and reality clashed into shock, as Tubbo sat, wide eyed and frozen in place.

It was only when the figure lifted its head an inch, and took a step forward that the boy had the foresight to scream, the guitar dropping from his hands and onto the ground with a hard

 _thud_.


	6. Silently

The room Wilbur found himself in when he slammed the door behind him was not his.

It was brighter. It was lovelier. And most importantly, it was unfamiliar.

Two twin beds positioned in the two corners of a room too big to ever exist in the house. Clean sheets, white like snow and not grey with dirt and grime. The smell of pancakes wafted in the air but unlike the one he woke up to every day, the one that made him want to gag.

It smelled… Different.

Wilbur wanted to explore, wanted to look around, but then the sight of the boy made him yelp and slam himself into the nearest corner in terror.

Because it was a _boy_. Not Techno. Not Phil. But a young and pubescent boy. A teenager with hair, the colour like his own. A stranger, sitting in his house. A boy.

But his fears were quickly stamped out when the boy began to strum the guitar. Terror replaced… With a sense of deja vu.

One note. One chord, one the boy just happened to play on accident or on purpose, and the words landed on the tongue of the ghost, like they always belonged there.

“A- I thought I…” He whispered, haltingly and hesitantly. “C-couldn’t love… anymore.”

And as he sang the lyrics, the nonsense melody began to morph and change as well, becoming more solid, under his words, into something that too felt so achingly familiar.

“Turns out... I can’t, But… but not for the same reasons as--”

_“I didn’t know you listened to Wilbur Soot!”_

As the tune died, so did the words fluttering to his tongue. The lyrics dissolved as quickly as they appeared, no matter how desperately he tried to cling to them.

For the first time, tears flooded his eyes, unprompted. Unscheduled.

He wanted to scream. The newcomer. He ruined it. This other boy, with his straw coloured hair and red shirt, who’s voice seemed to have the capability of crumbling the house down.

_“I thought I--”_

But then, Wilbur heard it again. The lyrics.

_“--co_dn__ l__e a___m____. T____--”_

But the more he tried to listen, the more they became noise, sound, nonsense. And he knew it was hopeless then. That he wouldn’t be able to remember it. That nothing would let him remember music. Nothing saved for that cursed guitar.

It was here, with his dark thoughts, that the man realized everything had gone suddenly silent. Curious, he glanced up, and saw the boy -- this stranger with his guitar, who played music that was familiar but not -- staring at him, mouth slightly agape. In surprise? In fear?

“Can you see me, perhaps?” He asked, eyebrows knit in confusion. “Were you not able to see me before? Am… I not supposed to be here?”

But the boy didn’t move, didn’t respond.

“Hello?” He said taking a step forward, slightly annoyed. “I asked-”

A sound pierced his ears, a second of a surprise he didn’t see coming, causing him too to scream, wide eyed and pale with fright.

But then the wall he slammed his back on was suddenly right at his heels. The room was suddenly smaller. The beds lessened to half the number of what used to be. The sheets were grey. And the guitar lay on the floor, perfectly fine as if nothing ever happened.

He didn’t dare touch it. He didn’t dare touch anything, in this quiet, godforsaken house.

“No.” Wilbur whispered, confused, his hands flying out in front of him as if the boy were merely invisible, and not entirely gone. “No, no come back. Please. Please, I’m begging you. Come back. I didn’t… What did I do?”

But of course, like all houses do, it gave him no answers. Only more questions.

He tried to hum the tune again, desperately, but it was already gone, like a dream, a vague impression of what once was. Like him. Unlike him. A memory that was allowed to fade.

“Wil?”

The voice shocked him out of his madness. His cheeks were wet. Why were they wet? It’s no different from every other time. Every other cycle, when he tried to remember. Except it was.

“Wil, are you alright mate? I heard a scream.”

“I-”

The temptation to tell Phil what had happened clawed at him. He wanted to burst out, shouting. But he held his tongue.

One small secret was better than an eternity of pitiful eyes.

“Techno says he’s sorry.” He continued, and Wilbur remembered the script, remember what he was supposed to say next.

He tried to bite his tongue. But it slipped out anyways.

“He’s not. He never is.”

“Should I come in?” His father asked, and for the first time, he was happy for the script. Happy to agree with something he once did in his past.

“No. I’m fine.”

“Alright then.”

He could hear Phil’s hand let go of the doorknob. His voice had a twinge of sadness.

“I got biscuits on the table if you ever want to come out and talk.” he said, and Wilbur listened to his steps walk back down the hallway, a beautiful and simple irregular 1… 2… 1… 2…

Music was everywhere. Music was in the sounds of the wind, the drips of water on water. The sizzle of food cooking over a fire. Music was the beat of nature, of how things worked, the time that kept ticking forward.

Music was supposed to be a comfort.

So why did it refuse to approach Wilbur as he curled up onto the floor and cried? Cried out for his hope and joy, for his love, for his creations. For the things that were there. For the things that could be there but just aren’t.

Why did it always leave him an arm’s length apart?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm starting to write these at 3am.
> 
> These are becoming essentially the beautiful ramblings of a madman.


	7. And it Waits

The mind plays tricks on perception sometimes.

Things are not where they’re supposed to be. Something might be a different colour than what was initially believed. A dream leaks too far into reality, and suddenly it’s possible to think that one is someone that they’re not.

And Tubbo reasoned to himself that that was what had happened as his heart beat rapidly in his chest, as his muscles became too stiff to move, as his body screamed to run and stay still all at the same time. It was a trick of the light, a mix of reflections off of mirrors, and refractions off of glass, that the shadows could make anything look like it was present in the room with him, no matter if it were a fly or a man.

And yet, the way his body leaned forward, the way his mouth moved soundlessly. The way that — just for a brief moment — the boy could feel his expression change.

The thought that the house had been infiltrated by a stranger was not comforting. The thought that a man had snuck into the room at his most vulnerable was enough to make Tubbo tense up.

“Are you alright up there?” Tommy called from below, and it was enough to make him jump in surprise once more.

“Yeah?” He responded with as much confidence as he could muster, though to his ears they sounded like a mouse’s squeak. “I just… I thought I saw something.”

“Saw something? What, like a spider?” A chortle shot through the air, a welcome introduction of sound to fill the silence of the house.

“No!” Tubbo yelled defensively, his worries quickly forgotten as he rushed down the stairs like a bullet, ignoring the disappearance of the guitar from his floor.

To call it a kitchen would provide it too much credit. To call it a dining room would be even more so. Their room of foods was a counter, too small to do anything with. It was a mini fridge, barely enough to fit the fruits, vegetables, and all their other cold products that they had to store. It was a single cook surface, a camping burner that they had sitting in the middle of the table, cord just barely enough to reach the socket.

It was a sink. It was a window. It was two chairs around a table that should have more.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to finally make pancakes, edible enough for them to eat and laugh over. And wasn’t that what truly mattered?

They giggled over song lyrics long left forgotten, gasped at the timings of the beats and the rhythm that seemed to let the words dance around them.

 _“She wrote an album, and that’s something that I can’t do.”_ The faceless man sang, and even out of Tommy’s weak phone speakers, Tubbo could tell that he was talented. Wherever he was — this Wilbur Soot — He perhaps had just earned himself a new fan.

“So what do you think?” Tommy asked, attentive and waiting for his friend’s final verdict as the music played between them.

“I think…” The older boy began, his mind fighting to regain a sense from the sound that tried to drift him away. “I think it’s amazing! Can’t believe I’ve never heard of him before.”

_“Secondly, I know I haven't written much, You know the way I can be.”_

“Yeah!” His friend laughed, as excitement flooded through them both. “It’s really a shame he never got any bigger than just an internet sensation. I really think if he kept going, he really would have gotten somewhere.”

“What do you mean by that, Tommy?”

“Well,” He shrugged. “He just… stopped posting songs one day. Disappeared off to whatever life he has. It’s honestly part of the reason why I forgot about him. But then…” He waves his hand to the phone. “Sometimes, I remember. And his songs just make me smile.”

Tubbo couldn’t help but crack a smile at that.

“Me too.”

They kept talking after that about other things. New video games being released, the trailers that had come out. Movies that they hoped to one day see. Rumours that flew around, conspiracies speculated in good fun.

And even when their breakfast was done, and when their mess had been cleaned, they still had much to talk about over the work that they brought with them, the studying they had to do. Where one boy was weakest, the other was surely stronger. Where one would hold their head in their hands in defeat, the other would help prop it up high.

It went well. Stress dispelled with laughter and jokes, Problems forgotten with words.

Until the man once again drifted into the foreground of Tubbo’s mind, causing him to pale the slightest bit.

“Tubbo?” Tommy asked, his concern clear on his face. “Are you alright mate?”

“Yeah. I’m…” The boy hesitated, torn between the potential of false panic or the threat of real danger. “Tommy, I think I saw someone upstairs.”

The other laughed, but Tubbo could see the flash of alarm in the way his body tensed up, in the way his eyes didn’t show the same lax humour as his expressions did.

“Are you sure it wasn’t a trick of the light?” He asked,

“No, I’m… Tommy, you locked all the doors last night right?”

“Well… Yeah.” He replied, slightly offended. “But there’s just no way— For fuck’s sake, we’re in the middle of the woods! Who would ever come out here?”

“The locals maybe? Or I think some people use the area to hunt. I dunno… I just...” Tubbo shook his head. “No, you’re right. It was probably… Maybe I’m just tired.”

“But you don’t seem tired, Tubbo.” Tommy frowned, and the boy could see his friend’s thoughts turning, puzzle pieces fitting into place.

Then, suddenly he got up, letting his pencil clatter on the table’s wooden surface. A spark of something lit his blue eyes; Was it an idea? Determination?

“Get up Tubbo.” He said with a smile that the other knew all too well. “Let’s go investigate this strange bedroom man.”


	8. To be Remembered

In all honesty, Tommy was scared.

Despite the way he puffed up his chest, despite the words he hid behind, the younger couldn’t help but feel terrified. The thought of someone in the room with them, watching their every move without their knowledge sent shivers up his spine and made him dig his nails into the palm of his hand.

This place was supposed to be a comfort, a paradise for the boys to wreak havoc without affecting the natural balance of the universe. This place was supposed to provide them a moment of peace away from their lives that would soon change; college and careers were what was waiting for them on the other side of this purgatory, this in-between of boys and men. But the knowledge of another, someone who wasn’t supposed to be present in the home made just for the two of them; It destroyed whatever bits of calm that they had tried to make for themselves, and brought with it the stress that the two desperately tried to leave behind.

He thought he hid it well underneath his stiff posture and confident air, thought his wide smiles could provide comfort to his friend when it couldn’t for himself. But Tubbo was observant, more than he let on, when he softly suggested:

“Maybe I could call father? Ask him to pick us up early?”

“No!” The alarm was apparent on Tommy’s face as he spun around with wide eyes. “Tubbo, definitely not. Definitely not that.”

“There will be other weeks Tommy.”

“But how long?” He argued. “How long until there’s another _day_ where both of us are--” He waved his hands, gesturing to the house around them. “It might be a few years until we get to hang out again, like this.”

“Like what?”

_As boys._

He grinned. 

“Like _men._ ”

Tubbo laughed, his spirits brightening the atmosphere and lightening the mood. And for a moment, it was as if it were just a game, as if they were still young children playing pretend. The monster, a joined figment of their imagination. The danger, falsified by their ingrained paranoia and lack of understanding of the world around them.

But then they reached the door that was left ajar, and that dread came back like a wave, pulling him down into an ocean of anxiety and leaving his hand hovering over the knob, suddenly afraid.

But one glance at his best friend -- who looked at him with concern laced within his fear -- gave Tommy the confidence, the last boost he needed to push the door open and step inside.

For the most part, it was the same as he had seen it only a few hours before.

Two twin beds, parted to their respective corners of the room. A large green backpack sitting by one, with a similar red pack lay on the other, its contents sprawling out over the unmade sheets and blankets underneath it. On either side of the room sat their own luggage bags, identical save for its contents. 

Other than Tommy -- who took a tentative step into the small space -- it was empty of people.

“Did you find anything?” Tubbo asked, peeking in as Tommy got on the ground and searched under the beds. 

“Nope.” He sighed nonchalantly, though his heart only beat harder. “Maybe check the closet?”

“Maybe he left?” The other suggested hopefully, and Tommy couldn’t help but hope for the same. “Maybe it really was just my imagination…”

“D’you remember what he did when you saw him?” The younger asked as the elder opened the untouched door and peered into the small space it defended.

“Well, yeah!” Tubbo responded, his smile audible at such a strange and obvious question. “I was…”

The sudden trail-off peaked Tommy’s attention as he looked back up at his friend, who stood very still, his hand holding the knob like a lifeline.

“What is it, Tubbo?”

“I--” He turned, and Tommy could see a strange realization dawn on him as he scanned the room, eyes darting from the floor to the covers, to the beds and luggage, and then finally, the corner. “It’s... not here.”

“What’s not here?”

But he didn’t respond, his body moving as if automatically, arms reaching for blankets and strewn clothes and messy jackets. Pulling up mattresses, a bee pillow, looking under bed frames. It was as if a manic feverish energy had suddenly entered his body, and refused to let go.

“Tubbo?” Tommy took a step towards his friend, worry flooding him more than any fear ever could. But the one who always listened, who was always the order to offset his chaos. His mind didn’t seem to have room for noise, didn’t have the peace for order. His hands grabbed for anything, dragging them away to uncover whatever they held underneath.

“Tubbo,” The chaotic, fearless boy laughed nervously, taking another step. “What’s--”

And the boy turned once more, revealing wide eyes and parted lips, gears turning in his mind but never quite getting to their destination. To Tommy, he seemed distant -- or more distant than usual -- unattached to the reality of the present and clinging onto thoughts and memories.

“The guitar, Tommy.” Was all he said.

“What guitar, Tubbo?” Tommy smiled, trying desperately to hide his terror. “I didn’t bring a guitar.”

“Yeah, and I didn’t... either.”

They stared at each other for a moment, both confused and fearful, but both for completely different reasons.

Then it dawned on him.

“You had a guitar.” He burst out, pointing at his friend as the realization hit him. “You… That’s how you played Wilbur’s…”

Tubbo didn’t speak. But that was confirmation enough.

Tommy wanted to laugh. He could feel it bubble in his chest, the beginnings of a hysteria.

“This is like…” His mouth tried to find the words, tongue slipping over syllables, skimming over the possibilities. For once, his language had failed him. “So… incredibly… _weird_!”

“Tommy, this is serious!”

“And I am being _very_ serious, Tubbo.” His grin felt too wide. Too forced. Too false. “A magic guitar that disappears? A magic _man_ that disappears?”

“There’s no magic and he didn’t disappear--”

“Well, it’s not like he can just be _gone_ , right?” The boy could feel himself grasping at straws for the mere semblance of comfort. “There’s nowhere for him to go…”

“What,” His friend stared at him like he’d gone mad. “Like you mean he’s a ghost?”

It was clearly said as a joke, as a throwaway line. A word not to be taken seriously in a world where such things didn’t logically exist. But these boys -- like all children their age -- were anything far from logical, and knowing this, Tommy jumped on with an easy smile.

“Yeah! Of course.” He laughed, as if it were obvious. “What you saw was a ghost, and… you know, that obviously means the house is haunted!” 

“That doesn’t…” The corners of Tubbo’s mouth edged its way into a frown.

“We can hold one of those… ghost things! Tubbo, come on. It’ll be fun!”

The other seemed to want to protest. Wanted to argue that now was not the time to think about something as ridiculous as the supernatural, that now was instead the time to be worrying about the intruder, the man who could very easily be watching them at that moment…

But their eyes locked, and whatever he was going to say seemed to die in his throat, as the message passed between them.

That it might as well be their last day in the cabin anyways.

That the intruder might be listening to them.

That if they’re leaving, they might as well go out with a bang.

Tubbo mimicked Tommy’s grin as easily as if it were true.

“Where do we start?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for checking out my story. It really does mean a lot to me that you all really enjoy it so much, and seeing the comments and kudos you guys leave really brings me light on dark days.
> 
> That being said, I unfortunately have run out of motivation to finish Memories Within the Walls. There are a lot of factors that did go into this, and this isn't exactly a sudden thought I had either. 
> 
> The plot and au will always have a place in my heart, and the potential for me to revisit and complete the idea will always exist as long as I continue to write mcyt fics.
> 
> You can perhaps cross your fingers and hope that one day inspiration will strike me again, and the ghosty bois will get the happy ending they deserve. However, until then, their fate will remain a mystery to even I. If I ever do, they first people I will tell will be my followers on twitter @cococapes, so follow me on there for updates, as well as other projects I'm currently working on.
> 
> If you do want more sbi content, I would highly recommend reading an au that I created regarding the family dynamic titled "Not All Heroes": https://archiveofourown.org/works/28131303  
> It is a modern fantasy story about Phil and past lives and Techbur twins, and I think if you enjoyed Memories, you'll be able to enjoy that as well.
> 
> Thank you for understanding, and I really hope to see every one of you again in the list of kudos or comments under my other stories.


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